A Portrait

Behind the plaintive weather of your smile,
What crumbling Aprils, what frayed tumults lie,
You, that are gone from us a many a while,
Beyond the fall of leaf, or change of sky?
What phantom thing went by your half-lit pane,
Some long since dusk, and in the going wept
Its ended loveliness? In the pale rain,
The tall house shook, and ever after kept
The look of tears. A dream indeed may pass,
And love be bitter-brief. From dreams cut free—
That love is fleet as flower white or blue
Unpetaled down a yard of village grass,
You knew. I know, and break the heart in me.
Count me the years till I shall smile like you!